


Sealed

by Missy



Category: Arthurian Mythology
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet, F/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-17
Updated: 2012-02-17
Packaged: 2017-10-31 08:25:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/341985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missy/pseuds/Missy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Guinevere and Lancelot, after the legend ends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sealed

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Porn Battle: Prompt: Arthuriana, Guinevere/Lancelot, tears, choices

Her whimpering penetrated his consciousness as he pulled her back against the rough walls of the stone dwelling they’d built together. Lancelot pulled away from her kiss, gently smoothing the hair that had escaped from her wimple.

“Sweetly now,” he insisted, tugging her into the stone hut. Its roughness did not seem to matter to her, and she did not complain of it as they quickly made haste to the bed and he divested her of wimple, shift and day dress.

Guinevere’s hair was rich and golden; Lancelot thought it as beautiful as it had been the first day he had seen her, though far richer when lying upon her broadcloth pillows. Pressing forward, her buried his face in her locks and smelled fresh flowers, the vigor of springtime and the joy of youth, then kissed her face and cheeks, as if trying to bless her, to anointer her with his love.

While he busied himself with the romantic and fanciful, she remained earthbound. Guinevere eagerly tore open his codpiece and Lancelot parted his thighs to give her purchase, allow her to stroke his member. 

“Ahh, Guinevere,” he murmured.

She rushed her hand up and down his swollen member, feeling its heavy pulse, the thick weight of it in her palm. He was bursting with life and need and Guinevere felt it like a spear to her innards. But with that desire there was a memory, and a great sense of loss. She valiantly strove to push it away. 

“Now,” she demanded, yanking on his shoulders.

He had taken to kissing her bared breast like a starving man – that interruption earned her a growl, but he didn’t gainsay her. “Nay, you’ll be dry…”

“NOW,” she requested, blindly pulling his member toward her mount. Lancelot moaned and reached down to guide himself through the lush petals that lay between Guinevere’s legs, but she would not tarry – her hips rose in a desperate effort to have him within her once more. Lancelot took her cue and plunged heedlessly forward into the semi-wetness of her sheathe. 

It was pleasure-pain of the deepest sort – tears sprang to her eyes but she lunged as the defeated knight buried his face in her neck and stabbed and drew into the heat of her body. She grew wetter as he swayed with her movements, the tips of her nails dancing desperately up and down his bare back. 

She tried wildly not to think of a time when she loved another this way, with more mannered but equally impassioned fervor. 

Guinevere thrashed in her married bed, writhing in desperation against the warm sheets, against the fate to which she had been bound. But she was helpless against the tides she swam, and they threw her with a wrenching spasm against Lancelot, who speared her to the bed with a roar muffled in her neck.

The fire crackled in the space between their heartbeats. Guinevere’s chest heaved; a great sadness rushed over her in the wake of their life-affirming love, and she buckled against his touch, his hands.

“What ho?” he asked quietly, wiping her wet face. She turned away “Guinevere,” he said, his tone turning into a rebuke, “we have done?”

She simply turned her head away, staring at the wall’s dull gray surface, until he turned from her to gather the food for their evening meal.

The shadows flickering on the wall had taken Guinevere away now, sucking her back in time to the walls of her homecastle, the courtly life she had known. Though Lancelot would never cave in to her stormy moods, her heart would never change its drumbeat. For as much as Guinevere loved Lancelot, as much as she’d always adore him, she could still see the fires of Camelot burning, and the face of the man who had shown her its glories so long ago.


End file.
